


first edition

by LeilaKalomi



Series: a collection of first nights [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Hand Feeding, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley celebrate Aziraphale's bookshop opening and Crowley's success at thwarting archangelic wiles.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a collection of first nights [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767751
Comments: 17
Kudos: 143
Collections: Promptposal





	first edition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waterofthemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/gifts).



> This is the third work in a short series of smutty second parts to scenes from canon. Each work is completely independent and should be read as part of a separate universe.

It was too much. Crowley knows it. He’d gone too far. And what exactly had he expected to get out of this, anyway?

Had he expected that he’d just swan into the angel’s new bookshop, flowers and chocolates in hand, and the angel would just smile at him and gush over the flowers and chocolate and how thoughtful Crowley was and laugh and effervesce until even Crowley was laughing and grinning and then their arms would end up around each other and the angel would tell him in a low, quiet voice how much it meant that Crowley would do this, that Crowley would come to see his shop, that Crowley would bring him these things, these particularly loaded, significant things that usually meant a very particular...thing, and he’d watch Crowley’s face when he said it, and Crowley wouldn’t resist the praise, wouldn’t tell the angel not to thank him, wouldn’t tell him not to call him nice, and Aziraphale would understand and smile and reach for him, or rather, pull him closer, because he’d never actually let go, and Crowley would breathe him in, and he’d be soft and his skin would be warm and he’d give a little breathy sigh and whisper Crowley’s name, and Crowley would pull back and they’d look at each other, and without knowing how it happened, they’d find themselves kissing, their lips pressing together as if of their own accord, and it would be beautiful and sweet, and then Aziraphale might lead him upstairs to the flat he had over the shop, his hand tight yet gentle around Crowley’s as if he were unwilling to let go for even a moment?

OK, fine. So Crowley has a fantasy. Whatever. Doesn’t mean anything. He hadn’t really believed it would happen.

So why had Crowley just completely lost it when he’d seen the archangels? Yeah...the fantasy especially doesn’t mean anything _now_ because he’d shown his hand just a _little_ too much. And what will Aziraphale think?

He’ll be grateful, maybe, Crowley’s treacherous brain tells him. He’ll maybe look at Crowley and say, “Oh, Crowley. Oh, _thank_ you. Oh, _do_ come in. Let me show you around,” and he’ll be all soft and sweet and (“Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have. And he’s wily and cunning and brilliant and oh…”).

Does Aziraphale know he’d heard that? That’s probably what had done it, what had kicked Crowley out of panic mode and straight into action. (“It almost sounds like you like him,” Gabriel had said. Crowley’s heart had pounded. He hadn’t stuck around to listen any further. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had; he couldn’t absorb anything else at that moment, couldn’t even think.)

And now? OK, so the flowers have wilted slightly. That won’t do at all. Crowley glares at them until they straighten up, until their petals lose the pitted, grayish cast they’ve taken on. The chocolates? Oh, those he’d kept in good condition, chilled just so. He isn’t going to miss the chance to watch the angel savor each one, even if he doesn’t get to be the one to feed them to him.

He hesitates outside the bookshop long enough that the door is pulled open, and Aziraphale stands there, looking at him in confusion.

“Crowley?” he says, and his voice is indulgent, caring. Crowley’s heart speeds up. “Oh, what did you do, you reckless thing?”

Crowley grins. “Flowers, angel?”

“Oh, of course. Come inside. Do come inside. Out of the cold. Right you are. Flowers, then, and oh—nibbles!”

“ _Nibbles_ ,” Crowley mocks, even as something in his chest melts. _Nibbles_. Ridiculous. (Cute.)

* * *

No one is in the bookshop, and Aziraphale’s fingertips brush against the side of Crowley’s hand as he reaches out to take the chocolates.

“Business not looking so good, then, angel?” Crowley says, ignoring the tremor in his voice as he follows the angel to the back of the shop to a little room with a sofa and chairs and desk that Aziraphale walks straight toward. He miracles a vase for the flowers on one of the little tables and tugs them and bullies them a little until they get the right look.

“Oh, _business_ is just _fine_ , I assure you,” Aziraphale says. He’s set the chocolate box down on the desk, and now he unties the ribbons, his plump, manicured fingers deft and quick. “Can’t have hoards of people in here among the first editions, after all.”

“It’s just that it’s opening day,” Crowley says. “I’d thought maybe a bit more of the—” Crowley’s voice catches as Aziraphale opens his mouth and slides a chocolate in slowly.

“Oh, _caramel_ ,” Aziraphale sighs. “Mmm. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Crowley. This is _perfect_.”

Crowley steps toward him without thinking, his heart pounding, a pressure building in his abdomen and, well, a bit lower too.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Aziraphale says. “You know that, don’t you?”

Crowley, shaking, steps closer, reaches out past Aziraphale to the chocolates. He feels almost like he’s possessed, only he can’t picture anyone else wanting this more than he does, so he knows it’s still just him, it’s all him, that he’s the reason his hand darts out to the chocolates on the table, finding another one that matches the one the angel just ate, slim, cool fingers lifting it from the packaging.

“Another caramel?” he suggests. He tries to keep his voice light.

“They might have killed you,” Aziraphale says. He opens his mouth when Crowley raises the chocolate to his lips, so Crowley pushes it in, just slightly, letting his fingers graze Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale holds his gaze.

Crowley lets out an embarrassing whine just as Aziraphale closes his mouth and bites into the chocolate, sighing and moaning with pleasure. “These are absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale says around the chocolate. He reaches up and catches Crowley’s hand before he pulls it away. “I’ve got caramel on your hands, dear fellow. Allow me to—”

“Anything,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale stares, hesitating. He holds Crowley’s gaze, then raises his hand to his lips, parting them only enough to slide Crowley’s fingers inside his warm, slick mouth. Crowley’s eyes flicker closed, and he groans as Aziraphale’s hands grip his fingers firmly and slide them slowly back out.

“I’m beginning to see that,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“See what? What do you…? I…?” Crowley’s hand is wet where Aziraphale had sucked on it. Aziraphale. Had sucked on. His hand. His heart pounds; he cannot breathe. How is he supposed to just go on as if…

“Crowley. _Crowley_. Darling. It’s all right,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer. “You’d let me do that again, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? Anything at all.”

It doesn’t feel like Crowley thought. It feels horrifying. Scary. Like he’s dying. Like his insides have been cut out and set on a stage and dissected.

“I—I don’t. I’m—sorry.”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale is closer now. His hands find Crowley’s, one of them still spit wet.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says. “Tell me what you meant then, when you said _anything_.”

“For you,” Crowley says, stupidly. “Aziraphale. I didn’t. I can’t...I couldn’t let them take you back. You don’t belong with them. Don’t belong in Heaven.”

“Oh? And where do I belong, then?”

Crowley is shaking. He’s said that to Aziraphale, an angel, and Aziraphale doesn’t look angry, just curious, indulgent. He’s still holding on to Crowley’s hands.

“Earth,” Crowley says, his voice breaking. “With me, if you like.” Aziraphale starts to smile, so he repeats it, bolder now. “With me, here. On Earth.” And Aziraphale smiles even bigger, so Crowley kisses him.

Aziraphale quivers in his arms, exhaling little breathy moans like Crowley’s another caramel, and then he feels the backs of his legs bump against something, and he’s not got enough willpower or strength to stop himself from falling onto it. Fortunately, it’s the sofa, and Aziraphale doesn’t stop kissing him, but sinks down onto him too, the weight of him knocking the air out of Crowley, but Crowley hasn’t needed to breathe for a long time anyway, and Aziraphale is breathing for the both of them, the air he exhales against Crowley scented sweet, and it’s so _much_ , and then his hands are tugging at Crowley’s tailcoat, so Crowley slides his arms out of it and reaches for Aziraphale’s too, pushing it back and letting it fall to the floor with a soft whisper. He doesn’t stop there, but divests the angel of his waistcoat as well, pushing his cravat up and out of the way as he undoes each button carefully, savoring the appearance of soft skin above the top of an undershirt.

“A moment,” Aziraphale says, eyelashes fluttering coyly, and he reaches up, and with a few deft flickers of his fingers, the cravat comes loose. Aziraphale tugs at the end of it, and it slides over his shoulder and onto the floor. Crowley snaps his fingers to unbutton his shirt and shrugs it off. Then he looks at Aziraphale, the broad expanse of him: milky skin and the gold embellishment of his hair.

“Oh, angel, you’re bloody perfect.”

“And you...oh, you’re absolutely scrummy, Crowley.”

Crowley opens his mouth to object, to ask what had happened to _delectable_ , but then Aziraphale leans forward and closes his mouth around one of Crowley’s nipples, licking and _sucking_ , and dear God, Crowley cannot think, cannot remember what it is to object to anything at all. His hands come up behind Aziraphale’s head, holding it in place, stroking soft hair. There is moaning, and that’s him, he realizes, all him, Aziraphale is gasping a little, sighing, but Crowley’s the one being vocal here, and that’s new, that’s…oh. Aziraphale’s hands have gone lower, and Crowley stiffens in surprise as they touch the buttons at the creases of his thighs. _Aziraphale really wants this. This is really happening._

“Crowley, is it still all right?” Aziraphale says, his voice little more than breath. Crowley’s nipple goes cold and wet, the tip of it stiff and straining, like his aching cock.

“God, yes. _Fuck_ , Aziraphale.”

“That’s the idea, yes,” Aziraphale says, smiling. His eyes catch on Crowley’s then dart away. His clever fingers work at the buttons at either side of where Crowley’s trousers are already tented, his cock eager. Aziraphale finishes the row of buttons on one side and slides his hand across the bulge in Crowley’s trousers to the other. Crowley groans, throwing his head back until it hits the back of the sofa.

“You,” Crowley says, and his hand lands on Aziraphale’s thigh as he struggles to remember how to speak. The thigh is warm and yielding in his grasp and not helping at all. “I want.”

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale whispers, moving even slower as he undoes the buttons on the other side, and he’s either not careful at all or very deliberate about where his fingers brush and where he rests his arm. Crowley can’t stop his hips from shifting, from pressing up and against him.

“Patience,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve kept me here, haven’t you? Kept me here? With you?” He leans forward and kisses Crowley again. Crowley’s mouth opens under his and Crowley pulls him so their chests are flush against each other’s, Aziraphale’s chest hot and so soft, and there’s still too much space, too much _not angel_ between them. Crowley grinds up against Aziraphale where he’s landed on Crowley’s lap, and Aziraphale gasps.

“I want to see you,” Crowley manages. “ _Please_ , angel.”

Aziraphale sighs and slides off of Crowley’s lap. He lowers himself to the ground and removes Crowley’s shoes slowly, rolls down his stockings, kissing the insides of his lightly muscled calves before tugging at his trousers. “Stand up,” he says softly, idly stroking the top of one foot.

Crowley stands. Aziraphale stands, too. With a snap of his fingers, he removes the rest of his own clothing, and Crowley stares at all that pale skin, the bright, glistening cock standing up against it, everything red and white and gold and shining bright like Aziraphale is royalty. Crowley doesn’t mean to, exactly, but Aziraphale is and has always been a beacon to him, so he moves closer, reaches out and pulls Aziraphale close. His hands slide up and down his arms, his back, and stroke skin he’d only previously imagined, digging into the angel’s arse and kneading the flesh there, pulling his supple cheeks apart until Aziraphale is grinding mindlessly against him, gasping, and then saying, “Oh, Crowley, wait, wait, darling.”

So Crowley waits, going still, and Aziraphale pulls back again, slides his hands into Crowley’s trousers and pushes them down, sinking to the floor with them with a little puff of breath.

“Fuck,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale slides a hand up his bare thighs, pushing them apart just slightly before reaching down to cup his balls and press his face against the inside of one thigh. He presses a kiss there before tipping his head back just slightly, sliding a hand across Crowley’s belly and down to the base of his cock. He leans forward and darts his tongue out, giving a quick lick to the leaking head of it and moaning in pleasure before taking it in all at once. Crowley hardly has time to gasp at the sight of Aziraphale’s lips parting around him before his hips snap and he’s collapsing, coming down Aziraphale’s throat, grasping Aziraphale’s shoulders and shouting.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, as Aziraphale slides back gently, giving Crowley’s flagging cock a gentle, fond pat. Crowley slides to the ground in front of him, leaning back against the couch. He throws his forearm over his eyes. “Oh, God. I’m sorry—I didn’t—shit.”

“Shh, Crowley, it’s all right. Everything is lovely, darling. You were perfect. Please don’t apologize. It doesn’t have to end just because of that. Not if you don’t want it to.” Aziraphale’s hand is still resting over Crowley’s cock, and now he gives it a gentle squeeze, which is enough for Crowley to open his eyes again, to see that soft body pressing against his, so beautiful and so completely ready. Aziraphale’s cock is dripping, practically pressing against his soft stomach, so Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, slides over, and straddles him, grinding their cocks together until he’s hard again and Aziraphale is moaning. Then Aziraphale reaches behind Crowley and brushes soft fingers against his opening. Crowley makes himself slick and wet so Aziraphale doesn’t have to waste a miracle on it, or worse yet, leave him to stand up and search for oil.

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Aziraphale says, “are you sure?”

Crowley nods. He lets his head fall forward onto Aziraphale’s shoulder as Aziraphale’s finger breaches him. Aziraphale supports Crowley’s weight easily as he adds another finger, stroking him and meeting his lazy, unconscious thrusts until Crowley’s thighs tremble. He whimpers as it becomes unbearable, and he feels empty without more of Aziraphale inside of him. He turns his head to speak in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Lie back,” he says, his voice coming out in a growl. Aziraphale complies as Crowley braces himself against the sofa, then crawls forward, looping a well-oiled hand around Aziraphale’s silky cock. He lowers himself slowly around it, watching Aziraphale’s face as Crowley takes him, the way his eyes roll back, his chin pointed up at the ceiling. The stretch is magnificent. It burns slightly and he waits, letting his body adjust to the sensation. “Ready?” he whispers.

Aziraphale nods, pressing his lips together, his eyes closed.

“Angel?”

“Please, Crowley. I’m fine, it’s just...I never thought we would…dear God, oh, _please move, Crowley. Please._ ”

Crowley rolls his hips, leans forward, presses kisses to Aziraphale’s lips, chin, neck, making him squirm and giggle, then shocking him out of it with another roll of the hips. Aziraphale gasps and grasps Crowley’s hips. Another lift and slide, feeling the stretch, and deeper, the nudge against his prostate.

When Aziraphale comes, it’s quieter, a gentle thing, as if he’d anointed Crowley with something sacred, something secret, filling him up with it. The wetness comes in long, hot pulses, slickening Crowley’s thrusts and urging him faster and harder. Crowley comes a second time, spilling over his own hand before he climbs off of Aziraphale slowly, cleaning them up with a wave of his hand and trembling with the new laxity of his body and with the weight of what they’ve just done.

But it’s only to find himself hauled back to the floor and covered with more kisses—easy, sweet kisses to odd places that surprise him into barks of laughter: his armpit, his bony ankle, his scalp behind the ear, a dimple on his back just above his arse, Aziraphale laughing and cataloguing each spot and the response Crowley makes to having it kissed, licked, stroked.

Without getting up, Aziraphale grabs the box of chocolates off the desk and presses the last caramel to Crowley’s lips. He eats it, lets Aziraphale lick the taste of it from his mouth, and keeps kissing him until Crowley is drowsy and dreamy, and then he snuggles into Aziraphale and lets Aziraphale hold him and caress him and soothe him into sleep, the two of them wrapped in blankets Aziraphale must have miracled over them, blankets Crowley would never admit later were tartan.

“They won’t come back,” Aziraphale whispers as Crowley slides into sleep. There’s a question in it. A question Aziraphale had been too afraid to ask Crowley when he was awake. So Crowley opens his eyes and smiles at him and his sweet, fretful face.

“I will,” he says. “I’ll always come back to you, angel. ’S long as we’re both on Earth.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi and follow me on tumblr [@leilakalomi](https://leilakalomi.tumblr.com).


End file.
